


Maybe

by A_Stressed_Cupcake



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Gen, Ghost Powers, Never piss off a ghost, Some Whump, seriously, you know me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23991331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Stressed_Cupcake/pseuds/A_Stressed_Cupcake
Summary: So maybe Eddie IS actually there for the sole purpose of destroying everything Lenore cares about.But maybe he's made some miscalculations.
Relationships: Implied Lenore/HG Wells, Lenore & Annabel Lee, Lenore & Edgar Allan Poe, Past Lenore/Guy de Vere
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Maybe

"Are you just trying to kill people I care about? Because you are overestimating how much I care about people." she scoffed. She meant it. When the bastard had faked his death, she'd been more upset about the soup than about him, and that was fine: he was a stranger (or so it appeared) and she was dead. Cold. A spirit. Death hardly phased her anymore, and that was that. So  _ maybe _ it had upset her to see HG Wells go.  _ Maybe _ , though, it was less about his death and more about his desperate struggle for life, maybe that tug she'd felt in her gut every time he gasped for breath wasn't so much affection as it was pity.  _ Maybe _ she was over it, and Eddie was off by a long shot.

And  _ maybe  _ she wasn't happy about her friend of many years being murdered.  _ Maybe  _ she just couldn't comprehend the idea of someone wanting to kill Annabel Lee.  _ Maybe _ Annabel deserved so much better than the ring of bruises around that pale little neck of hers and she knew it and she couldn't do anything for either of them and it was infuriating. Maybe. Maybe not.

And  _ maybe _ , just  _ maybe _ , there was nothing more rage-inducing than having to sit through a rant about how she had (without a hint of agency) driven a man she loved to suicide; a rant strung together, no less, by the same dude that had never, in five years of dating and several months of engagement, been seen within five square miles of said man. Who was he to talk to her like that? Oh yeah. No one.

She felt a twinge of hesitation, though, when Eddie grinned. A twisted smile that beamed with pure sadism. 

"Oh, Lenore…" he smiled, "You say that so confidently that I have to wonder if you really believe it. I know I don't."

She rolled her eyes.

"Ugh. Whatevs. The true crime here is that tie. Sky blue is  _ not _ for everyone."

Okay, she didn't _ mean _ to provoke him. That sensation in the bottom of her stomach was only growing with every little smile and look Eddie and the Brontë sisters gave each other. When he winked at Charlotte, she almost  _ flinched _ as the tug in her gut grew to a sharp stab, which wasn't _ possible _ because  _ ghosts don't feel pain, what the hell _ -

"You don't care about any of these people, is that it?" Eddie sighed.

She raised her head: "Nope."

"No one."

"No one."

"Is that your final word, love?"

She shouldn't have said yes. She should have just shut up when she had the chance. But something in her heart, some secret, hidden part, vehemently insisted that if he thought she didn't care, he wouldn't do anything rash. Chekhov's gun glistened in Charlotte's hand. She shouldn't have said yes.

She said yes.

"That's my final word: yes. Y-e-s." she said, and Eddie smiled even wider.

"You know…" he started, tugging at his cufflinks nonchalantly: "I wouldn't have killed Wells if I could have avoided it. He was a scientific mind, much like me. I, too, operate by way of the scientific method, and I am as thorough in my theories as any of the greatest scientists you've read about. I would suggest you ask Miss Shelley about that, but-"

"Get to the point!" Hemingway groaned from somewhere behind her, and she knew she did not care for him, especially.

"The point is…" Eddie sighed, "I can't let your claim go unproven."

_ Bang _ .

She shouldn't have said yes.

Nearly everyone screamed at that moment.

Charlotte let out a startled yelp and the gun fell to the ground.

She screeched something unintelligible.

Anne scolded her, probably. Not that Lenore would know. She was too busy staring at the growing red stain on Edgar's shirt sleeve. 

It had been spotless white, his  _ good shirt _ , because this was supposed to be a  _ good time _ . The one time she'd managed to convince him to have fun, to party it up, to make friends, of course  _ that _ had to be the day everyone on the guest list was murdered.

Of course it had to be the day he was shot.

Lenore saw red, and not just on Edgar's mangled shoulder. She saw it everywhere, pervasive and hot, boiling in her veins where no blood could run, stirring her still heart back into a passionate rage.

She didn't know why.

_ Maybe _ it was the look in his eyes, which had been a mirror of controlled anger up until a moment before, then shattered by the bullet to reveal pure, helpless fear.

_ Maybe _ it was the way he grasped at Ernest's sleeve, swaying dizzily in an attempt to stand up, his hands outstretched and reaching for something,  _ anything  _ to hold on to, just like HG had done.

Or  _ maybe _ it was the fact that after living with him for such a long time, tolerance had turned to affection, and roommate to relative.

It was the latter, she decided, and all the doors slammed shut. Poltergeist powers didn't come quickly, she'd learned, only after a few years of practice; but there were certain triggers that could speed up the process. Not that she cared to repeat the experience.

The door slammed into Anne's back, knocking her to her knees and making her drop the knife. It clattered awkwardly under the table.

It was exactly at the sound of the falling knife that Eddie seemed to realize how badly he'd fucked up. Unarmed, outnumbered and overpowered, locked in a room with an angry spirit. 

Yeah. 

He was done for.

So  _ maybe  _ she wasn't honest with the police. 

_ Maybe _ , when they found Eddie on the ground, she claimed the real killer had escaped. 

_ Maybe _ the Brontës knew better than to contradict her after seeing his head get smashed into the wall.

And  _ maybe _ she hadn't told Edgar what had been on her mind when she'd done it, or why she had considered sparing him and then not done so, or why her dead heart ached when she looked at the corpse.  _ Maybe _ she needed to bury the past along with the man who could've been her brother-in-law.

But when she looked at the sky blue tie around his neck, she just couldn't. She talked to Guy the next morning early, when the survivors had left and Edgar had been taken to the hospital; when she was finally alone with the rising sun, she whispered words meant for a dead man and then never spoke to him again. 

She talked to Eddie once too, and that was less pleasant, though (thank God) equally one-sided.

And  _ maybe _ when Edgar was discharged from the hospital, when Annabel was returned to her and when HG finally reappeared, she finally smiled for real and forgot about that prick.

**Author's Note:**

> My notes for this included "fuck him up baby"  
> Just fyi
> 
> I just really really want to see more protective Lenore and you know what they say... If there's not enough then make more :3
> 
> I mean she (not permanently but still) saw two people she cared about die that evening and the threat of a third might have snapped something and I wanted to see that without actually murdering poor Edgar so-
> 
> That is all, thank you and good night because it's super late and if I wait until tomorrow to post this I might regret it so BYE
> 
> -Cass


End file.
